


A Study in Recognition

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Series: Adjacent Oneshots [1]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: /thats/ the important tag, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Painting, Portraits, Post-World War II, References to Depression, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Portrait, The Author Regrets Everything, Unreliable Narrator, World War II, a bit yeah, ahahahhaaaaa, ayyy thats literally a tag lmao, because i will not tolerate any less than a happy ending, but post, i guess, oh god its been a while since ive done this, ok, ooo look at that, references, seriously guys its late im tired y am i doing this, sorta kinda at times, technically two parts, there are other characters mentioned but only in one part so, this is /not/ what i was planning on writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: do i really have to-ok uhFrance struggles to come to terms with a post-war reality. Like,struggles.Also Britain's there. Cause if I can impart any knowledge onto y'all it's that they're in love, thank you for coming to my TED Talk
Relationships: France & United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Series: Adjacent Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897894
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	A Study in Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> ahahhahhahhhah wwii angst go brrrrr
> 
>  _but pj where the hell are the updates to your multichapter works you promised us?!?!??!?!?!_  
>  shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh shsshshhshshshssshh  
> shh.  
> theyre coming  
> i do what i want

  


Lines on paper, really that’s all they were. Lines upon lines upon lines of pencil and charcoal on sheets of paper, large and small, some stark white, others thin and cream colored with age. Lines that formed the contours of his face, that traced the shape of his eyes, nose, mouth, that copied down the strands of his short hair onto the page in front of him. He stared at the mirror, trying to get every shadow of definition, every strand of hair, onto the page, searching the image in front of him, and his reflection in turn, growing more and more frustrated the more he stared, flipping the page and starting again at a new angle, staring at the mirror like a last lifeline. He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes glancing over the floor, pages of sketches upon sketches spread out around him, the studies of himself surrounding him, and all of them completely unrecognizable to himself. He didn’t _recognize_ them, the faces that covered the floor, the face that stared at him from the mirror, he didn’t know these people, this person. He couldn’t.

He closed his eyes, the stare of a hundred eyes becoming too much to bear. He tried to take a deep breath, a burn in his eyes that wouldn’t leave him alone. He shook his head, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, reaching for the matchbook on the table, the same one the small mirror sat upon. He struck a match, lighting the cigarette between his teeth, taking a deep, shaky inhale, and blowing it out slowly, closing his eyes again, leaning back. 

The sound of his front door opening broke through the silence of the studio, and he opened his eyes, taking another drag as he stood from the stool. He walked to the door, opening it and stepping out into the short hallway, looking over the living room and following the wall towards the kitchen, raising a brow when he saw Britain standing at the kitchen island, unpacking a bag of groceries. 

They made eye contact, and France watched Britain’s eyes widen slightly when they did. “Oh.” He stated simply, looking over France’s figure. “You’re up.”

France raised a brow. “It’s midmorning.” He took a drag from his cigarette, holding it between his fingers and pulling it away, breathing it out towards the ceiling. 

“Early afternoon, actually.” Britain went back to the groceries, putting a few cheeses in the icebox, and the fruit and bread on the counter behind him. “And you’re not usually up regardless.”

France pursed his lips, glancing on the clock, surprised to find it read five minutes from two. He frowned, shrugging. “I guess I am today.”

Britain eyed him carefully, glancing at France’s hands. “Have you been drawing?” He questioned, voice light.

France looked down at his hands, turning them over, the charcoal and pencil lead smudged over the side of his right hand, down to his wrist, his fingers covered in it. He took another drag, blowing it out slowly. He swallowed, glancing up at Britain again. “Something like that.”

Britain raised a brow. “Will you show me?” He put the last of the bag away, the carton of eggs into the icebox, and a couple cans into the cabinets above, turning back to France.

France looked at him, frowning, the fingers of his off hand tapping restlessly against his thumb. “Sure.”

Britain frowned, walking around the kitchen island and up to France. He raised a hand, hesitating before he ran it through the ends of France’s hair, fixing it for a moment, resting his hand on France’s shoulder. “You look tired.”

The hand on his shoulder was warm, even through his shirt, and firm, grounding. He wanted more, and he didn’t know what stopped him from embracing Britain in that moment, but he didn’t. He only sighed. “I’ve been up for a while.”

Britain patted his shoulder. “Did you spend the whole time in the studio?” He glanced at France’s hands again, his mouth quirking in quiet amusement.

France nodded. “I’m doing studies for a portrait.” He placed his cigarette between his teeth, and took Britain’s hand, pulling him down the hall, towards the studio door, left slightly ajar. There were few things he wanted _less_ than to show Britain the state of that room, but he had asked, and France had agreed, and a small, very small, part of France did want to show him. But he didn’t know why.

They walked to the door together, France entering first and Britain following him closely, raising a brow as he looked over the floor, stepping carefully through the pages spread over nearly every empty space. France watched him, sitting down on the stool in the center of the surrounding paper, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table with the mirror and the matches, seeing his reflection in the corner of his eye but refusing to look at it directly.

Britain came up beside him, glancing over the floor again and again. “You’re drawing yourself.” He stated it as fact, and he didn’t need to phrase it as a question in order to get an explanation.

France nodded again, keeping his eyes on Britain’s shirt, reaching up to pick a bit of fluff from his shoulder and letting it fall to the ground. He must have foregone his usual suit jacket in the summer heat, or perhaps it hung by the door now and France simply hadn’t noticed. “I am, I’m planning a self portrait, and I have to do the studies beforehand.” He let himself glance at the sketches, quickly turning back to Britain instead.

Britain hummed softly, turning away from the floor and looking at France. “I’ve never seen you draw yourself before.”

France averted his gaze, nodding minutely. “I don’t... typically draw myself. Ever.” He pursed his lips, staring at the corner of the room. “I draw for a lot of reasons, but mostly to study people, get to know them. There’s not much point in drawing myself because of that.”

Britain hummed again. “Then why start now?” 

France swallowed, looking back up at Britain. “A lot of... reasons. And none at all, I suppose. It’s difficult to explain.” He looked down at his hands, and he didn’t know if he still recognized them or not, like his face they were his, and not all at once. He controlled them, and didn’t. Recognized them, and had never seen them before in all his years. 

He felt Britain’s hand on his shoulder, then cupping his cheek, angling his face upward to meet Britain’s eyes. Eyes that remained the most recognizable thing in the entire room, in France’s entire world, or so it seemed. Britain offered him a small smile, a small reassurance, gently running his thumb over France’s cheek. “Well, you don’t have to explain then, God knows I probably wouldn’t understand it entirely. I’m glad it got you up and about though, that’s good to see. Even if it seems...” He glanced over the page-covered floor again. “A bit obsessive at the moment.” He smiled at France again.

France let his mouth quirk into a ghost of a smile, though it was short-lived on his face, and he leaned into Britain’s hand, grateful for it. He didn’t say anything, had no response, and his gaze slid away from Britain’s, landing on the wall across from him, the one opposite the window. It caught his eyes completely, though why he stared at it, he knew not. Something in the play of the light and shadow, or maybe just that it was the easiest place to rest. 

Britain patted his cheek lightly, pulling away, and France missed the warmth like a limb, his gaze finally breaking from the wall and looking at Britain again in question.

“How do you feel about some food? Have you eaten yet today?” Britain asked, bending down to clear a small path through the faces that stared at them from all around.

France shook his head. “I haven’t had anything, I’m not... terribly hungry, at the moment.” 

Britain frowned a touch. “How about some coffee then?”

France thought for a moment, drumming his fingers against where they rested on his thigh, giving Britain a nod. “I could... have some coffee, I think.”

“Cream and sugar?”

Another nod. “Please.”

Britain gave him a smile. “Of course.” Before he turned to the door, leaving France amid the mess of papers, to continue as he had before Britain arrived. 

France turned back to the mirror reluctantly, picking up his sketchbook and charcoals, his pencil and eraser, and flipped to a new page, sighing as he looked at his reflection again, setting out to capture something he had missed in the hundred other studies he had already done.

  


* * *

  


He had stopped counting a long time ago, two days had passed since he’d started these studies, and he’d stopped keeping track of how many he’d done, and how many he planned to do. He took the occasional break, went to the bathroom, cooked some small meal for Britain and himself that he would only ever end up picking at, went to bed when Britain all but dragged him out of the studio, but didn’t ever really sleep. Or maybe he did, an hour or two or three here and there, but he never felt rested. He felt too tired to sleep, and not tired enough. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ to sleep or not. 

He didn’t know if he wanted anything, only knew that he needed things. 

Like water, or coffee, or the occasional bite to eat. A cigarette or two, or ten. A few more sketches to add to the ever growing pile around him. 

But _this_ one. This one seemed to be turning out alright. 

He didn’t recognize the person created by his dark lines on stark paper, nor the one that stared at him from the borders of the mirror that still sat at his small table, but at least it looked like they were one and the same. He finally saw some _truth_ in the image, something he could latch on to and study, a reality he could focus on. Grab and hold firm like a lifeline in the open ocean. 

He felt like he could breathe again. One or two breaths he could take, he still had the portrait to do after all, but he could take a breath.

He finished the sketch, and let his shoulders drop slightly as he set the book on the table, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, taking a drag. He didn’t smile, but he felt closer to it than he had in... a long time, and that counted for something. 

After a minute or two, he put out the cigarette, the smoke curling up from the ashtray in an abstract pattern. He left the studio, walking out into the living room, seeing Britain in one of the large armchairs, reading a newspaper, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He looked up as France entered the room, raising a brow with a small smile, going back to his paper. “This is certainly a change.”

France rolled his eyes, a rush of air coming out as a ghost of an exasperated laugh. He walked up to the armchair, sitting on the arm and curling under Britain’s chin, forcing Britain to close the paper, setting it off to the side with a huff, putting a hand on France’s back, resting his chin on the top of France’s head. 

France took Britain’s other hand, holding it in his own, playing with the tips of his fingers, not quite relaxed, but not tense. He found it rather hard to be either, though he supposed doing all those sketches made him tense. Looking at himself made him a little tense these days. He felt Britain sigh softly against him, the hand on his back rubbing soft circles there. “Either things in that studio became unbearably bad, or you’ve had some form of breakthrough.” Britain’s voice reverberated against France’s ear, the question clear even without explicit statement.

France nodded minutely. “I’m ready to start the portrait.” He whispered softly. “I just need to move the mirror in, find the right pose and palette.”

“Which mirror?”

“The big one, I think, I need a lot of background space.” He replied, closing his eyes, listening to the quiet heartbeat beneath him.

He felt Britain hum. “I’ll help you move it in today then.” A comfortable silence stretched between them for a brief moment, content to sit with one another before Britain spoke up again, something in his voice tentative, almost careful. “I’m going back to London tonight, I’ll be there for a couple days. Are you... going to be alright on your own?”

France’s hand stilled, resuming its idle movement after a moment. “Of course.”

“You could always come with me, your portrait will still be here when we get back.”

France winced, shaking his head. “I can’t lose what I’ve found.” He paused, his voice growing quieter, smaller. “Don’t pity me. I know how to survive a couple nights on my own.” His tone came out bitter, hurt, but not by Britain, by something else, something he didn’t recognize. 

Britain sighed again, pulling France closer. “I’m not pitying you, I’m just offering you the option.” He paused, taking a deep breath that France rose and fell with. “I know you feel there’s something about this you need, that you’ll find some answer in it.” He stopped, though France could hear in his voice that there was more he wanted to say. 

“But?” He prompted quietly.

Another sigh. “But I’m getting... a tad worried. Is all. It’s not pity, I’m just a bit concerned, seeing you so obsessed like this.”

France nodded a touch, curling further against Britain. “It won’t take me long to paint it, I don’t think.”

Britain nodded, humming again. “Alright. There’s still food in the kitchen so try to eat it before any of it goes bad.” He paused. “And get some sleep if you can. I’ll help you with the mirror this afternoon.” 

France said nothing for a long moment, interlacing his fingers with Britain’s, holding his hand. “Thank you.” He voiced in a breath.

  


* * *

  


In the early hours of the morning the only light in the studio came from the three different lamps he had set up the previous evening, Britain assisting him before he’d left for London, parting words of careful concern that France had brushed off softly. Britain had kissed his forehead before leaving, and it left a ghost of a smile on France’s face.

Now he stood in the studio again, at some ungodly hour of the morning because he didn’t know how to lay down and sleep through the night anymore. He didn’t know how he’d ever done it in the past. The lamps didn’t create the best lighting for painting, but it served France’s purposes just fine, he was still doing the background and light sketch work after all. The previous late evening he’d spent taking down the paintings that had hung on the wall he would be utilizing for the background for the portrait, its soft brown color slightly marred now with large squares and rectangles of a lighter shade in the same color, but the paintings there simply hadn’t fit his vision, so he took them down. A couple of the larger ones gave him a bit of trouble, but he’d managed.

All the paintings now sat against one another, all leaning against the adjacent wall, not the window-side, but the door-side, or so he’d always tended to organize it in his head. The studio only had one window, also not ideal for painting but he made do with what he had, he didn’t need a lot of light for this portrait anyways. 

He’d found the pose he’d wanted, pacing the room in circles, trying out a myriad of different things, but hardly able to even look at them in the large, almost wall-sized mirror now set up in the room. Perpendicular to the window-side, parallel with the back wall and the empty wall where the paintings used to hang. He’d sat on the stool by the window, frustrated and tired and trying to think of the best way to portray the one truth he’d found in his sketches in the pose, feel, _emotion_ of the piece. And when he’d glanced back at the mirror from his seat, he’d seen it, he’d seen that same truth in the expression, in the posture. But he’d have to wait for the light of early morning for it to reach the perfection he needed. 

In the meantime he worked in his sketchbook, feeling out the lines and shapes of the piece, the layout. Mixing a few different colors, he’d tested the palette. He’d looked for clothes he wanted, something simple, something that _worked_ , eventually pulling out what he needed, laying it on the bed and... not having the strength to put it on.

He paced, he paced for hours into the night, woke up in the early hours of the morning, sitting against the wall of his studio, having fallen asleep there at some point without remembering doing so.

Now, sitting in his pose, dressed, he stared at the mirror from where he sat by the window. His eyes locked onto the eyes of the reflection in front of him, he studied every small detail of the image, committing as much as he could to memory, knowing he’d have to make this portrait perfect, he couldn’t allow for anything else. 

He sketched, and stared, and sketched and stared, and did anything but _think_. He didn’t think, he didn’t speak, he didn’t know if he even breathed but he must have once or twice at the least. And as the morning sun started to alight the room in a dim grey dusk, he fixed his palette and got to work, putting paint on canvas, working as fast, as carefully as he could to make use of the limited time he had. He committed more of the scene to memory, as much as he could, so he could continue to work even as the sun passed overhead. He tried not to look at his hands as he worked, only looking at the delicate touch of paint on paint on paint on canvas. Layers of color coming together to form the picture he sought after, the figure off center, off to the left in front of the window. He abstained from much detail for the moment, working solely on the colors and large shapes of the scene, knowing he had all the time in the world to get the details precisely right. And no time at all. 

A hand landed on his shoulder.

He gasped, standing and stumbling backwards, looking around wildly, his eyes landing on Britain’s, who stood just behind him, his hand having moved from France’s shoulder to his back, looking at him in unmasked concern. He put a hand to France’s cheek, looking at his face with careful inspection, slowly reaching for the paintbrush in France’s hand, taking it from him gently, setting it down on the lip of the easel. 

France let him, he could have fought it, could have insisted, but he didn’t, he only watched Britain’s movements, watched the paintbrush leave his hand, watched Britain take his palette and set it down on the side table next to him, the one with the mirror and the matches and the ashtray. The one with the muddied water he’d used to clean his brush a thousand times.

He looked at Britain’s face as he was led out of the room by a firm hand, though not a forceful one, one on his back, and the other holding his, squeezing it as they walked to the bedroom, Britain taking the lead and France following him easily, leniently. 

Britain sat him on the bed, running a hand through France’s hair before he went to the dresser, pulling out some fresh pajamas, satin ones France had had for... almost a century. He remembered where he bought them, the day he had, a rainy spring day in London, when he’d spent his first night at Britain’s house and planned to stay another. 1853.

He watched as Britain moved to undress him, moving to assist when prompted but otherwise still, letting Britain help him into the pajamas. Only when Britain gently pushed him to lay down did France say anything at all. “I thought you were going to be in London for a couple days.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but needed an answer regardless.

“I was.” Came the reply, Britain’s eyes searching his, a small frown tugging at his face as he pulled the covers up to France’s shoulder, turning to throw the discarded clothes into the laundry basket by the door. He came back, smoothing a hand over France’s face, down to his cheek. “I’m going to make some tea, and I’ll be right back, alright? Try to sleep, I’ll be right here.”

France nodded minutely, watching Britain leave the room, his eyelids already heavy and growing heavier. He felt so suddenly tired, he hadn’t realized-

  


* * *

  


He woke up in a cold sweat, a stutter in his breath as he pushed himself out of bed, the room dark with night. He didn’t know when he’d gone to sleep but he had surely woken up sometime in the morning’s early hours. 

He stumbled to the door, trying to take deep breaths, desperate to escape something but unknowing of what exactly that was.

“France?” A quiet voice from behind him, and he turned, though he could only just make out Britain’s figure in the darkness, still laying in bed, the quality of his voice exhausted. “Come back to bed.”

France bit the inside of his cheek, pursing his lips. “I’m just going to get a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” 

A sigh. Eyes he couldn’t see but could feel staring at him through the dark room. “I don’t believe you.”

France swallowed. “You shouldn’t.” He answered honestly. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the room before Britain could reply, but as he returned to the studio he listened for footsteps from the bedroom, and when he heard none, he presumed the other truly had gone back to sleep, and breathed a soft sigh, grateful that he hadn’t disturbed Britain’s rest so terribly.

  


* * *

  


As he stared ahead of him, carefully studying the strokes upon streaks of his dull palette on the canvas, he momentarily recalled the first portrait he’d ever done. Quite a few centuries back now, just about five... maybe four and a half. Something like that.

At the time he’d studied under a master of the art, had paid to learn from him, though he hadn’t taken France’s money, instead had wanted compensation in the form of stories. Which France did have an abundance of. 

They’d formed a fast friendship, and spent hours upon hours together, him teaching France the intricacies of capturing the soul on paper, France sharing with him harrowing tales long past. And when France had developed the skill worthy of portraiture, he painted a portrait of the master he’d learned from, and he had painted one of France in turn.

France hadn’t been with him when he died, had only heard of it after the fact. Apparently he’d died alone. A knowledge France had always carried with him, something he often thought of whenever he did portraits. 

He thought of it now, as he dotted small, careful detail in the eyes of the figure that sat by the window, he thought of that old friend of his, his last moments, last breaths of life spent alone, the midday sun shining in through the open window and a silent prayer falling from his lips as he passed. France could’ve been there for him, but how could he have known?

The figure started to take a slow shape in front of him, and most of his work concentrated there, the entirety of the background all but finished. Though the figure didn’t quite qualify as the foreground either, the foreground didn’t carry much presence in this piece, everything remained rather pushed back from the viewer, as though the figure kept them at arm’s length.

The figure’s face was angled slightly towards the window, facing something unseen beyond the glass, but its eyes were trained solely on the viewer, on France, their soft grey hue like a heavy rainstorm, only a slight shade lighter than the clothes that adorned the figure. The shadows in the room were diffused by the early morning dusk, everything cast in a shade of soft grey, shadows dark but not eye-catching, the highlights much the same.

He rarely had to go back to the pose now, he rarely had to look at the reflection in order to paint the picture, he need only focus on the details of it, the folds of cloth, the lines of the light curtains, drawn and held on either side of the pane itself. He did occasionally go back to the mirror, to get one minute detail or two _exactly_ right, he would accept no less, after all. 

And though he had to create something he deemed as perfect, there remained a certain ease in doing this, in losing himself in his work, in the paint and the image he strived to create through the simplicity of a myriad of colors coming together, mixing together or staying apart to create lines and defined shapes, in order to form the perfect picture. He didn’t often do portraits, found them terribly time consuming and much preferred the ease and _life_ of sketching, like he could capture a single instant on paper. Portraiture seemed more like capturing a decade, or a lifetime, on a canvas. Portraiture _explored_ a subject’s life, exposed the things they kept deep within their soul. Or at least the portraiture he preferred. The subjects of these portraits didn’t often appear pleased with the result.

He mused of the subjects he might like to capture in portrait as he painted. He’d love to work with Britain again, the last one had come out quite well, and it remained one the best pieces in his catalogue, in his own opinion. Perhaps he might do Canada some time, that would prove rather interesting, and he’d like the opportunity to know Canada as he is now. Someday he may like to paint Germany as well, though that would not be for... quite a while. Someday perhaps. It would certainly be an interesting study, and a lot could be learned of both parties during portraiture. 

More than anyone though, America had come to his mind first and foremost, even if he would surely be the most opposed. France let his mouth quirk ever so slightly, certainly not a smile, but close. Awfully close. He remembered America’s bright smile from so many decades ago, _that_ America would have been happy to let France paint him in portrait, France had almost asked a number of times, but in war there never seemed to be enough time for arts such as that. 

The America he knew now would never allow such a study of himself, or his image, to be done. It would turn out much like the portraits of kings and regents, any perceived flaw or slight imperfection would need to be covered and _fixed_ in order to create the image they _wanted_ to see rather than the image that _was_. One day, perhaps, France might ask to paint America’s portrait, and perhaps, in that future era America might...

Well it didn’t matter. He had _this_ portrait to finish first, and so far it appeared to be turning out rather well, and he saw truth in it, the most important thing.

  


* * *

  


He paced quite often now, getting up from the stool in front of his canvas, pacing the length of the room, or in circles, coming back, picking up his brush, turning and pacing again, rarely marking the image in more than a whisper of his brush against its surface. 

Britain, on occasion, would sit in the studio with him, reclining on the only one of the old sofas France had saved from his _old_ old home, the one upholstered in crushed blue velvet, the gold paint beginning to chip from its wooden frame. He still loved it though, and had plans to repaint it eventually, and it made for such a lovely place to sit, to lounge in the heat of summer days.

Only a few final touches were needed for him to complete the portrait in these final days. And he knew this. Perhaps that’s why he had slowed down so significantly, though the reason for such a thorough drop in his pace eluded him. But he didn’t truly need to know _why_ , he had never needed to know the why of his commitment to any minute action or reaction on the basis of emotion alone.

Britain often brought him coffee, most times accompanied by a small croissant or other pastry he’d bought from the bakery down the street that somehow remained open even still. 

He actually managed to finish half of one of those croissants one morning, and Britain had given him a soft smile as he took the plate back to the kitchen. 

He hoped that in a hundred years, in a thousand, he might still remember the rarest of joys that smile brought him in that moment. For that moment in time, nothing else existed. And the instant it faded he missed it like he had never missed anything before.

  


* * *

  


Something warm slid down his cheeks when he blinked, but he didn’t pay it any real mind, his focus far too enraptured with staring at the painting in front of him.

Something dripped onto his hands where they sat limp in his lap, but something far more pressing blurred and obscured his vision, and when he tried to blink it away, it only helped to form more of it, his vision clearing for just a mere instant.

His eyes burned terribly, and warmth flowed freely down his cheeks, occasionally dripping silently onto his hands.

  


* * *

  


Perhaps the truth held too much weight.

  


* * *

  


A familiar warmth rested around him, though where it came from he didn’t know, a distant, soft voice cutting through the ragged sound he realized belatedly as his own breath.

What an awful sound it created, his own breath tearing in and out of his lungs, it grated on his senses and echoed in his mind, occupying every space and remaining a simple background static all at once. 

He realized his eyes were open then, wide and staring at the wall in front of him. He blinked, finding them to feel awfully dry, rather worn.

The air smelled of stale cigarettes and cologne, a familiar scent.

And a familiar heartbeat under his ear.

He wanted to hear more of it, but couldn’t under the ever present noise his own effort to breathe created. 

He should probably work to remedy that situation, he did have the power to, after all. 

He made an effort, though the first few attempts were stuttered and awkward, eventually he drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush and taking in another. A hand on his back gently rubbing soft circles over his shoulder blades, the quiet voice becoming clearer through his rather foggy reality. 

He let his eyes fall shut, taking in more deep breaths, delighting in the quiet they obtained as a result. He took a quick account of his physical presence, finding his hands clenched tightly around fabric, recently starched fabric, from the stiffness of it, the faintest scent of detergent as well. He let his hands relax, releasing the fabric from his previous iron grip, letting them lay against it, and the solid warmth beneath.

“That’s it.” The voice came again, even clearer now, still just as soft in quality. “You’re alright. Everything’s going to be alright.” Another hand came up, cupping around both of his, holding them firmly, a thumb running over the back of his left hand. 

Britain’s voice, he was certain. And Britain’s hands. Calloused in all the ways that spoke of years at sea, delighting more in life on a ship than anything else. 

He turned his wrists in Britain’s hold, intertwining their fingers together, slowly blinking his eyes open again to stare at their hands.

He felt a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head, the hand on his back running slow lines down the length of his spine now, a grounding presence. 

He took in a deep breath. “Britain?” He voiced, wincing at the awful quality of his voice.

“I’m here.” Came the quiet reply, Britain’s hand squeezing his.

France made an effort to look around, lifting his head but finding a surprising lack of strength in his body, letting it fall softly against Britain’s chest once more. “I-” He started, wanting to say, to ask, many hundreds of things, but not having the capacity to sift through them all. “I’m so sorry, this is all-” He managed, shaking his head, curling into Britain’s arms. “God, I’m-”

“Shh, it’s alright, you’re fine.” Britain’s voice came out in a whisper. “You’re alright. Just try to relax, just breathe.”

France squeezed Britain’s hand in reply, letting his eyes shut again, timing his breaths to the ones he felt rise and fall under him. 

They sat in that way for a long, long while, before Britain moved to stand, helping France to stand as well, though his legs shook slightly when he did, and his hands didn’t leave Britain once, nor did Britain’s hands ever leave him as he led France towards the living room, sitting them both on the couch. He laid back, taking France with him, pulling the small throw blanket off the back of the sofa and throwing it over the two of them, his hand threading through France’s hair, holding him close. 

France breathed softly, his eyes closing, listening to the steady heartbeat under his ear, curled against Britain’s side, craving the other’s presence more desperately in that small moment than he ever had before. 

Quiet stretched between them, not even the soft ticking of his clock to interrupt them, for it had stopped working a while back, and France hadn’t yet the heart to replace it. 

Eventually, Britain spoke again, hardly louder than the silence. “Come to London with me.” 

France’s hand tightened on Britain’s side but he said nothing. 

“We’ll fly there ourselves, you always said you loved the thrill of flying those small personal planes.” His fingers scratched gently at France’s scalp, and France breathed out a sigh in response.

“I do love flying.” He whispered.

“More so than I.” Britain agreed. “And when we get there we’ll go to that restaurant, the one with the fish and chips. I took you there once. Do you remember?”

“I do.” He breathed. “It was cold that day.”

“Cold and rainy, and we had to race back to the car with the food, trying to protect those flimsy paper bags from falling apart.”

He smiled. “I remember that. We ate in the car then.”

“And watched the ocean from that overlook.”

“We had to pull out that wool blanket you kept in the backseat when we got too cold.”

“When _you_ got too cold.”

He snorted softly, huffing a laugh. “Yes, when I got too cold.” 

“I’m surprised the car survived that drive, part of me was worried we would end up stuck up there, forced to walk the long way back.”

“We’ve walked farther.”

A soft breath, the hand in his hair smoothing down to the back of his neck. “That we have.”

He waited, paused, his fingers playing with the fabric beneath his hand, speaking again after a long moment. “Will you take me to that bookstore you showed me a few years ago?”

“Of course. And we can go to that other store you like, the one that sells the gloves, and those hats you like to force me to try on.” France heard the smile in Britain’s voice.

He let himself smile again. “I’d like that.”

  


* * *

  


He started out small, just a few lines, a general shape, looking between the page and the small mirror set up in front of him. He took a breath, relaxing against the throw pillow at the end of the couch, taking another as he tucked his feet under him, his sketchbook resting on his knees, the mirror sat precariously on the back of the couch, shifting slightly when he moved. He studied his face in the mirror, marking the page in front of him with his features as he saw them. He couldn’t deny it felt strange to draw his own face again. Not... bad. Just strange.

He looked up when he heard footsteps approach from the kitchen, smiling as Britain sat on the other end of the couch with a soft sigh, setting his cup of tea on the end table and unfolding his newspaper.

“They really still print those?” France grinned at him from over the top of his sketchbook, stretching out a foot to nudge Britain’s side.

Britain huffed, ruffling the paper as he turned to the page he wanted. “They really do.” 

France shook his head with a laugh, turning back to his sketch, his eyes flicking between the mirror and the page in front of him, squinting slightly as he focused on getting the lines precisely right, letting the tip of his tongue sit between his teeth as he worked to capture his image, and all that came with it, on paper. 

He felt Britain’s eyes glance at him more than once but he didn’t look up to meet them, not until Britain spoke up again, ruffling his newspaper. “What are you drawing?” He glanced at France from over the rim of his reading glasses. 

France looked back up at Britain. “Ah, I’m...” He started, smiling sheepishly. “I’m doing a few sketches of myself, actually. For... a self portrait that I’m planning.” He rushed out, wincing slightly as Britain’s eyes widened, his eyebrows raising and a soft frown tugging at his face. 

His frown only grew as he looked at France, his brow furrowing the slightest bit in that subtle Britain concern France knew well. “...Why?” 

France pursed his lips. “Well...” He started, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thought of the best way to answer. “I was having lunch on Thursday with WHO, actually. A small outing, you know we talk on occasion.”

Britain raised a brow. “Yes, I know. What does that have to do with...” He gestured to the sketchbook in front of France.

“Well, we were talking, all sorts of things came up, as they do you know.” He played with the pencil in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. “And we ended up touching on the war, very briefly mind you.” 

“The war?” Britain asked softly. “That’s a rarity.”

France nodded, his lips quirking up in a small smile as he looked down at the sketch in hand. “It is, but it was bound to happen eventually, it has been a hundred years now, after all.”

Britain hummed. “True, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, yes I’m getting there.” France shook his head, waving a hand through the air, trying to find his train of thought again. “Right, I was having a conversation with WHO, and the war came up, really more of a passing word of how much time had passed, and I ended up mentioning the self portrait I did back then. And then they said something that surprised me, they suggested that I do another one. And I told them of course, that I don’t draw myself, that _that_ whole affair was a one time exception.” He shrugged. “They said I didn’t have to, of course, that it was merely a suggestion.”

“And you decided to try it?” Britain continued.

He shrugged again. “I suppose so... I’m not sure. It feels... odd. To draw myself again.”

Britain hummed. “It feels odd to see you draw yourself again.” He agreed, his eyes sliding to the sketchbook, then back to France. 

France smiled softly, nudging Britain with his foot again. “I’m sorry.”

Britain shook his head, patting France’s shin with a hand. He raised a brow as he looked at France. “Just promise me this one won’t turn out like the last one did.”

France took his hand, squeezing it. “It won’t be anything like that. I think I’ll take my time with it, there’s no rush.”

Britain squeezed his hand in return, smiling back at France. He didn’t speak for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you even still have that portrait?”

“...Somewhere I think.” France hummed. “I haven’t seen it since... Well, you know. But it might be interesting to pull it out again whenever I finish this one. Compare and contrast perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Britain agreed, nodding. He leaned back on the couch after a moment, picking up his newspaper again and flipping to the page he wanted, reaching for and subsequently taking a sip of his tea.

France grinned, shaking his head with a soft laugh, turning back to his sketchbook in turn, trying to recreate his image with soft, dark strokes of lead on paper, seeing himself on the page in front of him, in the mirror beside him. His hands producing a reflection of himself, his visage laid bare in front of him, intricacies in his character exposed through the weight of lines on paper.

“France?” Britain’s voice broke through the silence.

“Yes?” He didn’t look up.

“I’ve been thinking a bit more about what you asked me the other day.”

“Oh?”

A hum. “Yes. And if I were to be honest... I wouldn’t..." He cleared his throat. "I don’t believe I’d be terribly opposed.”

He let out a laugh. “It’s more something you have to _want_ , I don’t think we should go into it simply unopposed to the idea.”

A huff. “Right, right of course. In that case, I believe that I... might want that. With you.”

A smile grew impossibly wide on his face, though he tried to tamp it down by pressing his lips together, staring intently at his sketchbook. “I think I want that with you too.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> hi  
> thanks for reading?????? im sorry????????
> 
> also. @ u hoes in the chat craving some britain angst, i will provide i promise, he's next. neither of them are safe, and i know we have some thirsty brit stans in the chat that need to watch the boi suffer. i gotchu dw
> 
> _also @kea ur oneshot is coming i promise, its just taking longer than i though it would hahahhaahahahahaa_


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